


If I Fall

by Alliterative_Albatross



Series: Better Love [9]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: (emotionally mostly), Angst, Danger, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Hurt Javier Peña, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, This is a wild ride, Unplanned Pregnancy, Will update tags later, major angst, this will be painful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:47:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29788035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliterative_Albatross/pseuds/Alliterative_Albatross
Summary: Life in Colombia never goes as planned.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Series: Better Love [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073882
Comments: 90
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Bogotá, Day 0**

“You’re early,” Ana laughs as she opens her front door. She takes one look at your face and frowns. _“_ _Mierda_ _,_ Ears. What’s wrong?”

“God, is it that obvious?” Your attempt at a joke falls pathetically flat.

“It really is.” Ana folds her arms across her chest. “Spill, _hermana.”_

“I -” Oh, hell, saying the words out loud is so much harder than you’d anticipated, even to Ana. You look down at your boots, your eyes stinging. “I think I might be pregnant,” you finally manage in a hoarse whisper.

“Oh.” Ana’s voice is toneless, and you cringe a little. You have no idea what she’s thinking, and the uncertainty claws at you. You don’t have time to ponder it, though, because Ana opens the door wide and rests an arm on your shoulder. “Okay, come on,” she says gently. “I’m making you some tea.”

Woodenly, you shuffle along with Ana as she leads you into her tiny living space. You get the vague impression of the backs of your legs being pressed up against the sofa, and automatically you sit, Ana’s hand still a steadying weight on your shoulder.

“Ears?”

Oh.

Ana’s kneeling in front of you now, concern etched all over her face. “Are you going to be okay for a minute while I make tea?”

You nod.

“Okay.” Ana still looks like she has doubts, but she stands, pats at your back one more time. “I’ll just be in the kitchen. Just for a minute.”

It seems like no time at all before Ana’s back in front of you, pressing a warm cup of tea into your hand. “It’s hot,” she warns.

“Thanks.” It’s much easier to think now that you’ve got something to do with your fingers. You take a gigantic swig of tea and scorch your tongue.

Fuck, Ana hadn’t been lying.

“Arturo’s not home?” you ask, glancing around the dark room, noticing the relatively peaceful atmosphere for the first time.

Ana looks relieved to hear you speak. “He’s out,” she answers, settling down in the battered wicker chair across from you. “Said he’ll be gone for a while. We’ve got all day.” She rolls her eyes. “He was really weird about it, actually.”

You snort. When is Arturo not really weird?

Ana folds her legs and pins you with a look. “Can we talk about it now?”

You bite your lip, suddenly beyond grateful that Ana had referred to your situation as ‘it’ rather than anything more… personal. She’s a good friend. “Yeah.”

Ana blows at her tea. “So you took a test?”

You swallow hard. “No.” The churning in your stomach hasn’t gone away since your mad dash to the bathroom this morning, and the more you think about it, the more nauseated you get. “Was afraid to. But I’m late. And… sick.”

Truth be told, being late isn’t all that uncommon for you. Since you were a teenager, your cycles had been stupidly unpredictable, some so light you hardly noticed, other a flood of misery and cramps that seemed to last weeks. For a while, you’ll be regular like clockwork, and then, for no reason at all, you’ll go months without so much as spotting. It’s just one of those weird quirks that comes along with being you.

So you hadn’t thought much of it when you’d realized it’d been a while since you’d made a trip to the store for tampons. That’s fine. But you’d been feeling a little off for a while, just tired and achy and irritable.

Again, not completely unwarranted. Life in Colombia is fucking exhausting, and between worrying about Los Pepes and balancing Stechner’s bullshit, you’ve been feeling burned out for a longer than you’d like to admit.

But when your morning cup of coffee had sent you rushing to the toilet to throw your guts up, you’d paused. Coffee is a constant. It punctuates all of your mornings and fuels your late nights. It’s never made you sick before.

And that’s when you’d remembered the shot.

You’d started on it right around the time that you’d asked for your transfer. Working such irregular shifts wasn’t great for taking a pill consistently, and when your doctor had offered you this new option for birth control, you’d leapt at it.

But twice now, you’ve had to reschedule your appointment due to last minute shift changes. This morning, you’d counted back dates again and again, tearing through the apartment like a wild thing hunting for a calendar. Did you ever actually make it to the office in September, or is that June that you’re thinking of?

You can’t fucking remember.

Ana hums thoughtfully, drawing you from your thoughts. “Okay.” She sips at her tea. “So you might be pregnant.”

You bluster a sigh. “I said that already.”

Ana glances sharply at you, a look that clearly says, ‘I’m trying to help you, asshole,’ and you grimace in apology. “I take it you’re not excited, then?”

“God, no.” It’s the last thing you’ve ever wanted. Kids are loud and messy and a lot of fucking work, and besides, you’ve been so focused on your own life that you’ve hardly had time to consider how a baby would fit into it. All of that mom shit has just never been in the cards for you, and you’ve always been pretty satisfied with that arrangement. “Not at all.”

Ana fiddles with her teabag. “What does Javier think?” she asks delicately.

All of the air leaves your body with a sharp whoosh, and you slump over, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes until you see spots.

God, you’ve been trying so hard to avoid thinking about Javi.

“I don’t know,” you rasp. And that’s the truth. You and Javi hardly discuss the future enough to determine what’s for dinner the next day. Neither of you care about that shit, and that’s exactly why things work so beautifully between you. It’s easy. Uncomplicated. 

Something lurches in your chest. Somehow, you have major doubts about Javier Peña’s unspoken desire for a family.

“I haven’t even told him.”

Both of Ana’s brows arch skyward. “No?”

You shake your head pitifully. “Nah. Didn’t wanna,” you wave your hand vaguely in front of you, at a loss for words. “You know.”

Bother him? Scare him?

Drive him away?

Ana purses her lips. “Ears,” she says warningly.

“What?” you grouse, frowning fiercely into your teacup as if it is the source of all of your problems.

“Are things,” Ana’s voice is soft, hesitant. She shifts in her chair, giving away her discomfort. “Are things okay there?”

You snap your face up to meet her eyes. “With Javi?”

“Yeah.” Ana pauses, seems to gather herself before continuing. “I mean, he doesn’t… he wouldn’t hurt you, right?”

“Huh?” It takes a minute for the full impact of Ana’s words to hit home, but when they do, you sit straight up on the sofa. “Ana, no. God, god, no. Javi’s intense, sure, but…” Christ, the thought is laughable. Javi is so fiercely overprotective that it’s damned near stifling.

Ana is still eyeing you carefully.

You hunch forward on your elbows, pinning her with an earnest stare. Ana has expressed her distrust of Javi before, something that’s always struck you as strange. Sure, there was that one time that he’d met you in the street, but then again, it had been getting pretty late, and he’d been worried about you being out after dark.

That must have made a hell of an impression.

“I promise you, Ana,” you say, looking her hard in the eye and lowering your voice in your most serious tone. “Javi would never hurt me. He -” Your voice catches, and you wonder if this lump of emotion in your throat is love or goddamn pregnancy hormones. “He’s good to me. He’s a good man.”

Oh, fuck, don’t cry.

Ana leans back in her chair with a soft sigh of relief. She shakes her head at you, amused, exasperated. “You just seem so worried, is all.”

You huff a mirthless laugh. “Ana, I’m worried because I’m weird. It’s not Javi. I swear.”

Ana’s lips twitch a little at that. “That’s no lie,” she teases, and the bubble of tension between you bursts. You each take a long sip of your tea.

“So,” she says, rising from her chair and reaching for your half empty cup. “The way I see it is, there’s really only one thing to do.”

“Hit me with it.” You follow Ana into the tiny kitchen, where she quickly washes your mugs.

“Well, first of all, Ears, you don’t even know if you’re pregnant,” Ana says matter of factly. She lays the tea cups out to dry on the counter. “Seems silly to borrow all of this trouble if you’ve just got a stomach bug.”

You close your eyes and sigh. Ana is right. You’re just a chicken shit.

“So here’s what’s going to happen.” Ana grips your upper arm with wet fingers, and you open your eyes to meet her gaze. “We’re going to go take a test.”

You take a shaking breath.

“Stop that.” Ana pokes you in the chest, her eyes glittering playfully. “You don’t get to freak out yet. If -” Ana stresses the ‘if.’ “If you’re pregnant, then we will go for _helado de canela_ and you can freak out all you like.”

You nod. Ana has always been great at talking sense.

“And if you aren’t,” Ana continues, smirking mischievously, “we’re going to Morena anyway, and you get to buy.” She winks at you. “In celebration, no?”

“That sounds great.” Suddenly feeling much lighter, you swing back to the living area and grab your bag from the sofa. “Lead the way, babe. Best _polas_ in Bogotá, right?

“Test first,” Ana reminds you pointedly.

“Oh, fine. Fucking killjoy.”

Together, you make your way to the front door, and there, reality slows to a crawl right before your eyes.

Ana opens the door, still grinning widely.

She freezes. The laughter dies on her face.

Two large vans squall to a stop in the street below you.

You catch Ana’s shoulder in a vice grip.

Six masked men leap from the vans. They are wearing dark clothes. Each are carrying machine guns.

You yank Ana roughly inside, slamming the door behind you.

 _“Dios mio.”_ Behind you, Ana’s voice trembles.

Your fingers fumble awkwardly with the lock.

Footsteps pound up the front steps.

You whirl around, all thoughts of beer and ice-cream forgotten.

Ana stares at you in wide-eyed terror.

_“Is there another way out of the house?”_


	2. Chapter 2

_“Is there another way out of the house?”_

Ana shakes her head, her hands still pressed to her mouth, and your heart sinks in your chest. A fist pounds on the door forcefully enough to rattle its frame, and fear lurches deep in your belly. 

“Hide,” you whisper, squeezing her upper arm tightly enough to leave a mark. 

“Arturo Delgado,” a voice calls tauntingly. _“Sabemos que estás aquí. No nos hagas derribar la puerta.”_

Ana is still frozen in place, shock and terror etched all over her face. 

You jerk her hard. “Go,” you hiss. “Go now.”

She moves.

“And Ana.” Again, you catch her by the arm. Outside, the men are beating on the door, the flimsy wood beginning to cave against their advances. “If they find you, don’t fight.”

She nods tightly, then whirls, and you’re alone in the front hallway. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Panic threatens to overtake you, but you bite it back, dissociating from your situation with an ease born of your military training. Your eyes dart to the gun closet, and you make a move, pulling the door to behind you just as a spray of gunfire peppers the front walkway.

The men rush into the house. You can just see their bodies through the crack in the closet doorway. One is shouting orders, the others fanning out, guns at the ready. 

They are hunting. 

Frantically, you sweep your gaze around your cramped surroundings, grasping with your fingers as your eyes adjust to the darkness. 

Arturo’s guns are gone. 

Goddammit. Goddammit. 

In your awkward fumbling, your elbow bumps something hard in your bag, and suddenly, you remember that you’d forgotten to empty it from last night’s assignment. 

Hope flares hot in your chest. You’ve still got a shoebox recorder and a single blank tape. 

Thank you, Bill. Thank you.

You drop to your knees, your breaths loud and heavy in your ears, working as quickly and quietly as you can. In the silence of the gun closet, each click and pop of the recorder is deafening. Distantly, you hear voices and heavy footsteps, the occasional curse floating at the periphery of your brain as the men search the house. 

They are going to find you. Of that, you have no doubt. You’d made eye contact with them on the front step. They’ve already seen you. It’s just a matter of how much time you have to collect intel, and if they mean to murder you or take you captive.

With trembling fingers, you manage to hit record on the tape player.

“Six masked men,” you whisper breathily into the speaker. “Heavily armed, identities unknown. Two vehicles, a white van and a red SUV. They are asking for Arturo. They know him.”

A scream pierces the silence, and you shut your eyes, biting back a sob that threatens to rise in your throat. They’ve got Ana, then. “One captive.” You force your voice to stabilize. What you’re doing is important, critical even, to bringing these fuckers to justice. “Ana Delgado. Arturo’s sister.”

A long, long silence, punctuated by the low murmur of voices. 

They’re discussing something. There have been no gunshots and no further screams. 

Ana must be alive. 

You breath a heavy sigh of relief. 

And then, unbidden, another thought rises to the forefront of your mind. You bring shaking hands to your lips, silencing the cry that is threatening to keen from the back of your throat. 

Javi.

Oh, god, he’s going to be frantic. He’s hardly recovered from the bombing of your first apartment that you narrowly escaped, and that’s been months ago. You know he still thinks about it, still dreams about it, still worries.

You remember the gun that he’d bought you, the shady gun with no serial number, and for the first time, you wish fiercely that you’d listened to him, that you’d carried it in your bag as he’d asked you to, time and time again.

These men saw you. They know your face. They’ve found Ana, and now they’re coming for you.

Fear, startling, genuine panic rises like bile in your throat for the first time, and you bite your lip, swallow back the tears that are threatening to gather at your cheeks. 

This is going to shatter him. 

You fall silent as footsteps pass by your hiding space. You catch a glimpse of Ana being manhandled through the doorway. She’s quiet, her gaze locked to her feet, but still, her captors have her arms gathered tightly behind her back, are gripping her with enough force to bruise. 

Damn them. 

The front door squeaks shut, and you lean into the recorder, knowing instinctively that you have only moments.

“Javi,” you breathe. “Javier Peña.” Your voice cracks, and you swallow hard, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t -”

Outside, a car door slams. Footsteps approach, along with voices. 

“God, baby, I’m sorry. I’m so stupid, and I’m sorry.” 

The front door opens. 

You lean into the speaker, suddenly desperate. 

You are out of time. 

“I love you.” Tears are rolling unchecked down your cheeks now. You don’t give a shit. They’re going to tear the house apart until they find you. Let them find you like this, sobbing and useless. It doesn’t matter.

You’ve got nothing to lose but these last precious seconds. 

“I love you so much, Javi. I’ve always loved you.” 

A shadow blocks the line of light at the seam of the closet door. 

“And I always will.”

You rise on shaking legs, kicking the tape recorder to the corner of the closet just as the door slams open. 

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 0**

Javier lopes up the garage steps, taking them two at a time. 

He’s desperate to see you. It’d been three full days in Medellín this time, and each second apart from you claws at his insides in a way that he can hardly justify. His body aches with it, the emptiness, the loneliness. It’s like something cold and dead takes up residence in his chest when you’re not around, chilling his insides and muffling his thoughts. 

It drives him insane. 

He unlocks the front door quickly, a smile already tugging at his lips. He’d had the rare opportunity of talking on the phone with you last night. You’d just returned from an assignment, your words groggy and thick with exhaustion, and Javier’d relished in it, had held the image of you vividly in his mind, warm and sleepy, with mussed hair and a soft, indulgent expression. 

“I can’t wait to come home to you,” he’d confessed, heedless of CNP boys stuffing their ears at the opposite end of the barrack. 

“I’ll be here,” you’d answered with a smile in your voice, your words already slurred by sleep. “Promise.” 

The apartment is cold and dark when he enters it. Instantly, Javier is on red alert. “Babe?” Apprehension prickles down his spine. He knows immediately that you aren’t here. 

Strange. You’d had the day off, had confirmed it. Lately, Stechner’s had a partiality for swapping your schedule around last minute, but you’d talked to him yesterday. 

He’d promised you a break. 

Javier takes a deep, bracing breath. He has a tendency to overreact when it comes to your safety and he knows it. He tamps down his baser instincts, calls his rational brain to the forefront. 

When you’re not home and not working, you’re usually with Ana. 

Javier grimaces. Even though it’s been months since he’s been directly involved with Los Peeps, the thought of you visiting Arturo Delgado’s house really grinds his gears. Javier’s been cool about it, kept his head and not nagged you - he knows that your friendship with Ana is special, and he won’t get in the way of that - but Arturo Delgado is a dangerous man. 

Javier knows that from experience. 

Carefully, taking slow, even breaths to calm his racing heart, Javier examines the apartment. It’s a bit of a mess. Everywhere he looks, drawers are opened, their contents strewn haphazardly on the floors. The bathroom is particularly suspicious. Every cabinet is torn apart, every cranny rifled through. 

Javier tamps down the unease that threatens to rise in him. It’s not like you to leave things out like this. Automatically, his fingers itch toward the pistol that rests in his belt, and after a moment’s consideration, Javier draws it. Clearly, he’s alone here. There’s nobody to witness his paranoia, no you to call him on his bullshit. 

Javier’s index finger plays at the trigger of his Colt as he stalks through the evidence with bated breath. There’s no sign of forced entry, but clearly, you’d left in a hurry.

And it looks like you’d been searching for something. 

Javier makes his way back to the kitchen, noticing for the first time the calendar that’s spread across the counter. He glances over it, noting absently that it’s opened to June of 1993.

Strange. 

He sweeps his eyes over the blocked dates, doesn’t see anything of interest there. Certainly nothing that looks like new ink. 

Unnerved, Javier makes his way to the phone at the front hallway. He dials Steve’s number. 

“Murphy.” 

“It’s me,” Javier announces. He doesn’t wait for Steve to respond, just barrels on. “Just got back from Medellín. You didn’t happen to talk to Ears today, did you?”

Steve hums, the sound crackling Javier’s ear. “Sure didn’t,” he huffs into the line. “Saw her on her way out this morning, though. She had her bag with her, the big red one. Looked like she was in a hurry.”

Javier’s pulse throbs in his ears. “Did you see which direction she went?” He swallows hard, tamps back his anxiety. Again. 

There’s nothing to be worried about yet, but still, Javier is worried.

“No,” Steve sighs. He’s silent for a beat, and then, “Javi, is something wrong? You sound -”

“I don’t know.” Javier cuts him off quickly, not the least bit interested in how Steve Murphy reads him. “Just, you’ll let me know if you remember anything, yeah?”

Steve sucks a sharp breath. “Of course,” he answers quickly, and Javier hangs up the phone before Steve can say anything else. 

Javier leans against the wall and closes his eyes, focuses hard on his body, his breathing. ‘Overreacting.’ It’s a word that you tease him with often. But this time, something is churning ominously in Javier’s gut, thrumming loud and insistent in the back of his brain. It’s an instinct borne of years of police work, and Javier would be a fool not to listen to it. 

Grimly, he stalks back into the kitchen, opens the bottom drawer below the tiny island, the one where you hide your gun. 

And there it is, just like Javier suspected it would be, pristine as the day he’d acquired it from Berna. Untouched. 

Dread gathers in Javier’s chest, rushes cold down his spine and prickles his skin. Pressing his lips in a tight frown, he glances out the window, where the sun is sinking low and golden-red on the horizon. 

Javier braces his palms on the countertop, calculates the risks against the benefits, determines very quickly that the guarantee of your safety is far beyond any price that he could pay. 

He’s going to visit Arturo Delgado.

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 0**

The men had wrestled you to the red SUV at gunpoint, even though you’d gone willingly with your hands up. 

Apparently, your captors are taking no chances. 

You’re not sure where Ana is, only that she’s not in your vehicle. Your wrists had been quickly ziptied behind your back, your eyes blindfolded awkwardly with a spare bandana. There’d been some discussion of what to do with the ‘gringa,’ and you’d feigned ignorance, deciding instantly not to give your captors any inkling of your understanding. You’re still not fluent in Spanish, not by a long shot, but you’ve come a long way since your initiation to Colombia a little over a year ago. 

Most of that is due to Javi’s help.

Now, you’re stretched across the floor of the backseat of the SUV. Your body is covered by a foul-smelling blanket, your face straddled by gigantic leather boots. 

You can hardly breathe. 

Panic rises in you, but again, you push it away, focusing on one desperate breath after another. Your face is covered, each inhale stifled and hot with your previous exhalation, but you’re sucking air. Even if it’s not clean, it’s air. You aren’t actively dying. 

That’s all you can ask for.

The SUV moves for a long time. Time blends together after an hour or so, and you give up on counting, deciding to focus on your breathing instead. There’s lots of starting and stopping, a bit of a backroll as the vehicle accommodates for the slope of a hill, and you assume that you’re still in Bogotá, though you’d quickly lost track of the twists and turns. 

Something churns in your gut. You should be paying more attention. 

After a long time, hours, it seems, the vehicle rolls to another stop. Your captor in the back seat shifts a bit, lifting his foot to press his boot into your cheek. Something cold and hard digs at your ribs with enough force to bruise, and after a moment, you recognize it as the barrel of a gun. Without your permission, your heart speeds frantically, and your breaths with it.

_“Silencio.”_ The voice is hard, hissed. A threat. The gun digs painfully into your side, and you shut your eyes tightly, waiting for the pop of detonation, the searing finality of a death that never comes. 

The vehicle lurches forward. Advances for a brief moment. Stops again. Your brain works overtime to calculate where you could be, but you draw a blank. Either you don’t know Bogotá nearly as well as you should, or fear has overtaken your brain and left you useless, putty in the hands of your captors. 

Either way, you’ve failed. 

Finally, the vehicle comes to yet another stop, but this time, the atmosphere around you shifts. The barrel of the gun digs deeper into your ribcage, forcing your choked inhalations to shallow further. The constant murmur of voices around you has ceased. The entire convoy seems to hold its breath, waiting, watching. 

You can’t help but copy them.

It’s a long time before anything happens. The blanket that smothers your face smells of sweat and stale piss. Your captor’s boot presses against your cheek so roughly that you taste blood. Some age old instinct flares hot in you, as if you can sense that rescue is near. You ache to scream, to fight, to writhe pitifully against the heavy foot that pins you dow, but the cold barrel of the gun that digs bruisingly between your second and third rib keeps you quiet.

You hate it, hate it, hate it. 

Murmurs in Spanish don’t quite reach your ears. Above you, your captor shifts, giving away his unease but allowing you no freedom. 

After a long moment, you recognize Martinez’s voice at the window, and your heart floods with fierce, glittering hope.

A police block. Your kidnappers have driven right into a trap. 

‘Please, please, please,’ you send a silent prayer to the universe, to anybody who will listen. ‘Please search the car.’

Martinez does not search the car.

Orders are barked, sighs are released, and beneath you, the SUV ambles forward, carting you away to some unknown destination. 

The pressure of the gun’s barrel lifts just barely from you side, and you catch a deep, stale breath, cursing Martinez for the goddamn fool that he is, wondering if you’ve dodged a bullet, or if you’re in deeper trouble now that you haven’t. 

The vehicle rumbles on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish Translations:
> 
> 1\. We know you’re inside! Don’t make us break down the door.  
> 2\. Silence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a slight stylistic departure in this chapter: italicized English quotations are in spoken in Spanish. See the end notes for a long ass discussion about this and other translation issues that I’ve bumped into while writing this fic.

**Bogotá, Day 0**

Arturo’s home is crawling with Los Pepes. 

Worry drums in Javier’s chest. Not for him. He doesn’t give a shit about his own safety, assassination attempts be damned. But something has clearly happened here, and Javier means to find out what. 

He charges up the front steps with enough authority that the gunmen part before him. Javier pauses briefly at the door. It looks like it’s been kicked in, its wood warped and splintered. 

It’s riddled with bullet holes.

Oh, god, please. Please, let him be wrong.

Pulse rushing in his ears, Javier pushes past a pair of faceless bodies. Arturo is in the kitchen, barking orders. 

Javier grabs him by the shoulder. _“What the hell happened?”_

Arturo whirls, geared for a fight, his eyes flashing and nostrils flared. Nearby, his men tense and finger their guns. 

Javier stands his ground. 

Arturo relaxes just slightly when he sees who he’s speaking with. Just slightly. _“What the fuck are you doing here?”_

_“Looking for my -”_ Javier stumbles over what to call you. He always has. He swallows hard, gathers himself. _“For_ Ears.” Javier sweeps his eyes over the house, his gaze lingering at the front door. _“I know she was here. What the fuck is going on,_ Arturo?”

Arturo huffs deeply through his nose. _“Relax.”_ He waves a hand toward his men, and they immediately drop their weapons.

A muscle ticks in Javier’s jaw. He’s getting impatient, is damn near ready to beat the story out of Arturo if he doesn’t hurry up and spill. He folds his arms tightly across his chest instead. 

_“They took her.”_ Arturo’s voice is dry, dead. It sends a shudder crawling down the skin of Javier’s back. “Ana. _They took her.”_

 _“Who?”_ Javier’s heart twists violently, and it takes everything in him not to shake Arturo by the collar. If they took Ana, then they took you, too. _“Who took her?”_

 _“Sicarios,”_ Arturo spits. He tightens his fingers into fists, glances darkly at the bullet holes that pepper the front door. _“Six of them. I don’t know who.”_

Dread churns like bile in Javier’s gut. This is it, the inevitability that’s haunted him ever since you’d narrowly escaped that fucking bomb. He’s done everything in his power to dodge this exact fucking scenario, and now it’s here, Javier’s very worst nightmare, come to bite him hard in the ass. But there’s no going back, no time to dwell on his many regrets and mistakes. That can come later. Right now, Javier’s only choice is to wade through it. He takes a quick step forward, leaning into Arturo’s space, chest to chest. _“What the fuck did you do?”_

Arturo meets his glare unflinchingly. _“You know what the fuck I do,_ Javier,” he hisses, jabbing Javier’s breastbone with an accusatory finger. _“You’ve helped me do it.”_

All of the breath leaves Javier’s body with a whoosh. Arturo is right, and with every fiber of his being, Javier resents it. None of this would be happening if Javier’d just stayed in his lane to begin with. Frustration wells in him. Javier’d been naive enough to believe that with his last little run in with Arturo in June, the consequences of his involvement with Los Pepes and the cartels were behind him. 

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

 _“Here, you’ll want to listen to this.”_ Arturo presses something into Javier’s hand. _“You’re right. Your girl was here, too.”_

Javier ignores that. He’s holding a shoebox recorder, the type that Centra Spike uses. Javier’s seen you cart these things everywhere, has watched you lay countless of them proudly on his desk, flashing that sly grin you’ve got when you’re about to reveal a juicy secret.

The memory _burns._

Javier swallows hard, gripping the recorder tight enough that the plastic clicks a bit beneath his fingers. He can feel himself spiraling, guilt and rage and _fearfearfear_ threatening to overtake his good sense, rendering him dumb and useless under their onslaught.

And Javier can’t have that right now. 

Right now, you need him. You need Javier more than you ever fucking have.

So Javier takes a deep, bracing breath and pushes all of those paralyzing thoughts aside. He sets his jaw and focuses on the task at hand, laying the recorder carefully on the kitchen counter and leaning on his hip to listen in. Just as his finger is hovering over ‘play,’ Arturo’s hand claps down on his back. 

Javier flinches, snarls.

Arturo’s eyes are soft with concern, his voice low as he warns, _“You might want to take that someplace quieter.”_

Javier shrugs him off. What he wants is to collect this intel so he can bring you home in one piece. He slams the play button hard enough to jar the joint of his finger, and it gives with a sharp click. 

There’s a soft rustle, and then your voice, hushed but near, as if you’re hovering just over the speaker. “Six masked men,” you whisper, and Javier’s heart lurches. You sound so scared. Scared, but determined. It awakes that maelstrom of emotion that’s boiling just beneath Javier’s surface, and Javier bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, beats his stupid feelings back, back, back so that he can listen intently to what you have to say. 

Hope rises in him as you describe your kidnappers’ vehicles. Granted, it’s not much detail to work with, but it’s something, and Javier knows that CNP conducts routine traffic checkpoints all across the city. It’s a starting place, and Javier is fiercely grateful for it. He makes a mental note to tell you just how smart you are, how perfect and brave and resourceful and how _proud_ he is of you, just as soon as he gets you home. 

Javier listens grimly as the _sicaros_ take Ana, notices the tremor in your voice as you narrate. He aches to wrap his arms around you and pull you tight to his chest and never, ever let you go.

But then, your voice drops and you’re speaking directly to Javier. 

“Javi,” you breathe, and Javier leans so close that his nose nearly brushes the recorder, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. “Javier Peña.”

‘I’m here,’ Javier is tempted to answer, but he holds his tongue, because the ugly, undeniable truth is, he’s not. You’d been alone. But before that thought can threaten to swallow Javier alive, you’re apologizing.

“No, baby,” Javier whispers, heedless of the many pairs of prying eyes that are watching. His surroundings fade until Arturo and his men are only background noise, until it’s only Javier and your voice, fuzzy and broken with static. “No, no, no.”

Each breath lances through his lungs like a knife wound as Javier listens to you struggle for words. “It’s not your fault, _mi vida,”_ he murmurs softly as you stammer about being stupid. _“Jamás. Jamás.”_ His voice cracks _._

This is all on him, every bit of it.

And then, Javier’s world tilts on its axis.

“I love you.”

His breath catches. Did you - did you just…

“I love you so much, Javi.”

Oh god. Oh fuck. Yes, yes you did.

“I’ve always loved you.”

Something cracks straight down the center of Javier’s chest at your confession, and he flinches under the force of it, pressing the heel of his palm to his sternum as if he could contain all of the white-hot hurt that’s leeching out of him, body and soul.

But there’s no time to process it, the gravity of what you’re saying, _the_ _finality_ , because you’re still speaking, and Javier is hanging on to your every word.

“And I always will.”

There’s a horrible clattering, staticky sound, deafening after your soft whispers. It jolts Javier’s higher brain awake, and he hunches forward on his elbows, straining to hear what comes next.

The murmur of voices. Javier doesn’t quite catch what they’re saying, and then you, further away now, but at a much higher volume. “I’ll come quietly,” you announce boldly in a voice like steel, and there’s that splintering sensation in Javier’s heart again, but aching instead of searing this time, removed, muted. 

Overwhelmed. 

More commotion and chaos. Javier cringes as he hears you grunt in pain. Indistinct phrases, a short discussion. Your voice again, a softly slurred word that Javier recognizes by your tone as a curse. Some shuffling, retreating footsteps. Then a distant thud of the door slamming shut, and finally, the hiss and crackle of recorded silence.

Javier shuts his eyes and braces against the countertop. 

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

Your words replay over and over again in Javier’s mind, taunting him, torturing him. He rubs at his forehead and blinks his burning eyes hard, suddenly aware of Arturo watching over his shoulder. 

The pity in his expression threatens to send Javier into a rage, but this time, instead of locking that feeling away for later, Javier grasps for it, pulls it to the forefront of his mind and using it to light a fucking fire of purifying determination in him. 

He’s got to get you back. He _will_ get you back. There’s no other option worth entertaining, no way that this awful day concludes but with you in Javier’s arms, laughing and trembling, and him pressing a thousand soft kisses into your hair, making promises and quiet praises and long, long overdue declarations.

Javier will not allow otherwise. 

He shoves off the countertop, feeling a little off balanced and unsteady as he straightens, but Javier pushes that away, too, buries his shaking fingers in his belt loops and looks Arturo hard in the eye. He clears his throat and works his jaw, and his voice, when it finally comes, is like ice. _“What time did you get home today?”_

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 0**

The vehicle finally pulls to a stop. There’s a shuffle as your captors exit, and finally, the stinking blanket is lifted from your face. 

Thank fuck. You’re feeling light-headed and nauseated from being smothered for so long. You were beginning to wonder if they were planning to just let you suffocate. 

_“Salir.”_ Somebody yanks hard at your boot, and instinctively you kick at them. There’s a brutal flash of pain at your hipbone as something slams into you. You cry out, heedless of your aching muscles as you huddle into a ball. The aftershocks of the blow pulse through your entire body with each frantic beat of your heart, the pain flaring and spreading. 

The butt of a gun, you realize dully. He’d hit you with the butt of his gun. 

But you don’t have time to recover or contemplate, because suddenly hands are gripping you everywhere, dragging you out of the car. You’re helpless to comply, pulled in three different directions, blinded and stunned and injured as you are. You manage to stumble upright, sort of. You can’t feel your feet aside from some painful stinging sensations as blood rushes back to your lower half, and you lurch forward, leaning heavily on the chest of one of your captors. The zipper of his jacket digs into your cheek. He smells of stale cigarette and sweat and cheap cologne. 

You swallow back the urge to vomit on his shoes.

 _“Vamos.”_ One of the fuckers tugs at your hair, and you stagger in the direction of the pull, choking back a whimper that threatens to burst from your throat. 

You refuse to give them the satisfaction.

Slowly, sensation returns to your feet as you shuffle forward. You almost wish it hadn’t, though. 

Everything aches. Everything.

A door opens, and you’re shoved roughly through it, stumbling a little as your boot catches the jam. The air shifts, warmer and staler, and you see dim light spilling through the cloth of your blindfold. 

The door slams shut behind you, and you realize belatedly that in your discombobulated state, you’ve missed a prime opportunity to attempt to observe your location. 

Goddammit. You have no idea where you are, other than the vague impression that you’d never left Bogotá. 

You’re lead around and around for what seems like an eternity. Your captors aren’t stupid. Even now, they’re attempting to confuse you, guide you through a winding song and dance until you have no idea where you are in the house. 

If it even is a house. 

Finally, you’re deposited unceremoniously through yet another doorway. You stagger forward, nearly falling to your knees at the force of the push at your back.

Somewhere to your left, somebody gasps softly.

Your breath hitches, your rapid pulse speeding even faster. 

Ana? You hardly dare to hope.

Rough hands snatch the bandana from your eyes, and you blink dizzily at the flood of sensation. 

You’re in a dark room. It’s completely bare. One of your captors stands in front of you. He’s holding your black bandana, and he’s masked. Average height, average built, dark hair and clothes and eyes, thoroughly unremarkable. The door behind him is cracked, spilling a tiny triangle of orange light onto the concrete floor. To your right, another open doorway leads to a utilitarian bathroom, barely more than a closet housing a toilet and a sink with a single round mirror hanging above it. 

To your left sits a pile of dirty blankets, and there, huddled in the corner of the room, Ana is watching you wide-eyed and trembling, her hands clamped over mouth. Her hair is a mess and there’s an ugly, darkening bruise at her jaw. Tears track freely down her dirty cheeks. 

Joy leaps in your chest, but you clamp it back, blinking sedately at her as your turn your attention back to your captor, giving nothing away.

He’s pawing through your backpack, you realize. Anger boils in you. Of all the invasions and injustices of the night, somehow, this stings worst. The man kneels on the floor, attempting to keep one eye fixed on you as he works, and suddenly, you’re tempted to attack him, kick him in the temple and make a run for it while his attention is divided. 

You don’t. You’re weak and exhausted, and your entire left side still throbs painfully with each breath. Ana is here, too, which makes you suspect that even if by some miracle you could take down this one asshole, at least five more would be waiting for you outside the room. 

Attempting to escape now would be little more than suicide.

Instead, you focus again on your surroundings, the white brick walls, the gray concrete floors. There are no windows, only the one door. 

You aren’t in a house in the _communas_ , then. Probably not an abandoned block of offices, either, given the lack of carpet and windows. A warehouse, maybe?

That seems most likely.

Your kidnapper appears to have finished his perusal of your personal life, because he drops your considerably lighter bag carelessly onto the floor and exits the room without another glance at you. He slams the door behind him, the soft snick of the lock clicking home enough to remind you of the sobering reality of your situation. 

You shut your eyes and breathe, breathe, breathe. 

“Ears,” Ana’s voice is hardly a whimper, but it draws you back to the real world. Sniffing a little, you hobble toward her, falling gracelessly to the floor at her feet and wrapping her into a gentle hug. 

Ana curls into your chest, shuddering with silent tears. You hold her there, allowing her to soak through your t-shirt as you rub little circles at her back. “Shh, shh,” you shush uselessly, but neither of you speak. There’s something stabilizing about comforting Ana as she cries, and relief settles warm in your heart at the contact. 

God, you’d been so worried about her. 

Time passes. You have no idea how much, only the vague impression that it’s late night, or maybe even early morning. Eventually, Ana’s sobs fade to quiet sniffles, and your thoughts turn to your own situation. 

To Javi. 

Surely he knows you’re missing by now. He’d been due back from Medellín in the afternoon, and the two of you had planned to spend the evening together. 

You’d promised him.

Something flares in your chest at the idea of breaking that promise, of Javier coming home to find you missing. He would be frantic. You wonder if he’d have the presence of mind to think of checking at Ana’s place. Probably. He has before; that one time that you’d met in the street, Javi’d been headed in that direction.

You wonder what time Arturo will be coming home, decide immediately that it hardly matters. Javi isn’t stupid. The front door had been bashed in, guns were fired. You hope fiercely that somebody will manage to find the tape recorder that you’d kicked into the corner of the closet. It’s a long shot, absolutely, but it was the only thing you’d known to do. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Ana has fallen into a fitful sleep, slumped in your lap. You’re glad for her, but sleep is off the table for you. You’re wide awake, your mind whirling a thousand miles a minute as you rehash your situation over and over. 

It doesn’t look good.

Carefully, you shift Ana’s head so that she’s cradled on one of the blankets, then ease up on all fours. Again, your fucking feet have fallen asleep, so you crawl awkwardly across the room on pins and needles toward your little woven backpack in the center of the floor. 

It’s damn near empty. Not that you tend to carry much with you anyway, but your wallet, keys, and pager are gone, along with all of your pens and your notepad. You think back, deciding that there was nothing too incriminating for them to find. The pager battery was nearly dead anyway, and you tend to write everything in your own bastardized shorthand, even when making something as simple as a grocery list. Surely those idiots are too stupid to translate the couple of reminders you’d jotted down from yesterday’s groundwork in Medellín. 

You hope, anyway. 

You fish down to the bottom of the bag, delighted to find a couple of hair ties lingering there. Quickly, you braid back your ratty curls, separating their tangled ends with your fingers as your work. There. Much better.

You dive back into the depleted bag, something hard in a hidden side pocket catching your attention. You dig for it. Connie’s red lipstick. Your lips twitch into a sad smile. You should have given this back to her months ago. You tuck it away again, determined to return it the next time you see her. 

There’s not much left for you to find. A half-empty pack of gum, a balled up receipt from Mr. Ribs. Your heart lurches at the impression of Javi’s inked signature. You trace its grooves carefully with your fingertips, biting back frustrated tears that threaten to leak from your eyes as you think of him. 

God, you miss him so fiercely that it aches.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, kissing the receipt and folding it carefully between your fingers. It’s stupid, so, so stupid, but you can’t help clinging to each tiny reminder of him. Even this battered slip of paper that Javi could have touched feels like a lifeline, a tangible connection between you and the man you love. 

And god, do you love him. You love him fiercely and all-consumingly, more than you even have words to express, and goddamn you, you coward, you’d been far, far too late to tell him to his face. A panicked confession on a tape recorder that he may or may not find doesn’t count. 

Memories unfold in you; the dark, possessive way Javi stares at you from across a room, the desperation that leaks from his body as he gathers you in his arms after a rough day, the way he shudders and closes his eyes when you compliment him on even the smallest things. His hands, callused and gentle as they trace the curves of your body, his expression, awestruck and overwhelmed as he makes love to you in your bedroom, and the way he wraps himself around you afterward, carefully reverent, as if he can’t believe that you’re really his.

You fucking piece of shit, you. Javi deserves better. He deserves more. He deserves everything that you have to give, but you’d held back, cowering and afraid, pushing him away with your reluctance time and time again.

And hell, now you’re forcing him to live his worst nightmare. Javi’d provided you a goddamn gun, had taught you to shoot and begged you endlessly to carry it with you, and now look. You’d teased him, dismissed his concerns with a careless grin and a wave of your hand, and here you are, huddled in an abandoned warehouse, bruised and dirty and waiting for him to rescue you like a goddamn Disney princess. 

The thought of Javi searching for you, frantic and desperate and furious like you know he’ll be, is enough to tear your heart wide open. 

Something squirms deep in your belly, and suddenly, you’re reminded of the predicament that had driven you to Ana’s house in the first place. 

The maybe-baby, you think wryly.

“Fuck,” you hiss beneath your breath, pressing your hand to your churning stomach. “Fuck, fuck.” You’d thought it was awful before, but now, aching and alone, the full force of your situation swamps you, and you curl in a tiny ball over your knees, your hands still clenched to your belly, your forehead resting on the cold hard floor.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” you whisper pitifully. 

The darkness does not answer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think that Javi is taking all of this very calmly, you’re not wrong. Javi has a stressful job, and he’s excellent at dissociating from his emotions in order to get shit done. Don’t worry. It’s all going to catch up with him very, very soon.
> 
> Deeper discussion on how I’m handling the Spanish translations: This was a big problem for me in this fic in particular. According to my research, only about 4% of Colombians claim to be fluent in English. However, I’m a dumbass white girl who speaks only her primary language, and poorly. I am incredibly hindered by that, and I absolutely hate it, but I don’t want to do my characters a disservice with shitty google-translated Spanish. Not for big, long conversations, anyway. For now, the formatting will remain (italicized quotes being in Spanish), and I will do my best to remind you of that up front when it’s featured. Please let me know if you have a better suggestion, and also, understand that I am committed to learning as much of this beautiful language as I possibly can. 
> 
> Another translation concern that I want to go ahead and address - in this AU, I’m toying with the idea of Don Berna speaking English with Javi. Yes, I know that this reeks of whitewashing. I fucking hate it, guys, but I’m kind of torn here. I’ve briefly discussed the use of Spanish for emotional impact with one of my Spanish speaking friends, and she seems to be on board, but that conversation was in regards to Javi, a bilingual character, speaking to Ears, who only understands bits and pieces of what Javi’s saying to her. 
> 
> This is a different situation. In If I Fall, Javi is going to have some extremely heavy conversations with Berna, and part of me really wants to use Berna’s Spanish words to dig deeper at Javi. Esposa is a perfect example of this. Then again, another part of me cringes hard at the idea of whitewashing such a dynamic character in order to exploit his native language. Like, gross. So I’m leaving this up to you guys, particularly those of you who speak Spanish at home. How can I approach these limitations with sensitivity and grace? Is my desire to use Spanish strategically a stylistic choice, or just lazy writing? Please, please weigh in here. I am absolutely open to listening and learning. The last thing I want is to be an insensitive, ethnocentric asshole.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for listening to me ramble, and for all of your kind feedback. I am beyond stunned at the response that If I Fall has received, and we’re barely three chapters in.
> 
> Much love and warm hugs,
> 
> Jay


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italicized quotes are in Spanish. See end notes for details.

**Bogotá, Day 1**

Javier does not have you in his arms by the end of the day.

He closes his tired eyes and rests his aching head in his palms, just for a moment. He and Martinez have been sifting through security feeds for hours, and so far, not a hint of a white van or a red SUV to be seen.

It’s like you’d vanished into thin air.

Javier feels frustration rising in him, helpless desperation simmering just a little hotter with each erratic beat of his heart. He’s increasingly aware the time, the soft red glow of the clock on the wall threatening to drive him insane. The first seventy-two hours of an investigation are critical to solving a kidnapping, and with each second that ticks by, Javier knows that his chances of recovering you safely - or recovering you at all - are slipping away, too.

Javier had phoned ahead to the embassy just as soon as he’d dragged the entire story from Arturo. It was a little bit of a shuffle to even find somebody to report your status to. Nobody had seen Stechner in days. Normally, Javier would be beyond grateful to dodge him, but right now, it’s Stechner that he needs, and the five minute’s confusion attempting to locate him had nearly driven Javier to throwing his phone out the window. Cavanaugh, your direct supervisor, is a decent guy; easy to work with, if a little spacey. But Javier knows that Stechner has more connections that just CNP and the Colombian military, both of whom had quickly reported no leads. Deep connections, shady connections.

Exactly the kinds of connections Javier needs to exploit to hunt a faceless pack of _sicarios_.

But as it turns out, Bill Stechner is off in the jungle doing his jungle shit. Again. Javier’d been forced to grit his teeth and explain slowly to Cavanaugh the nature of the scenario, and why exactly it constituted an emergency. Once Cavanaugh had understood the urgency, he’d been appropriately concerned, but useless. His limited contacts had provided no additional information, and they’d been exhausted within half an hour. 

Javier just hopes that somebody has the means to get in touch with Stechner quickly, to pull his sorry ass out of the jungle and appraise him of your situation with all the imminence that you deserve.

For now, Javier’s on his own. So he reminds himself fiercely to _keep his cool_ and focuses on the only clue he has - your captors’ vehicles.

Javier’d wasted no time with embassy security - fuck those guys. Once he’d arrived at headquarters, he’d marched straight to Martinez’s office, and, finding it locked, had driven across town to beat on his door.

Martinez hadn’t seemed bothered to be pulled from dinner with his wife. Turns out, he’d briefly manned a traffic block during the time in question. He has no memory of a white van - those tend to attract attention - but he’s certain he’d seen a red SUV.

He hadn’t searched it. There’d been no reason to, he’d admitted sheepishly.

Javier’d had to actively resist the urge to throttle him.

But Martinez had escaped with his life by the skin of his sorry teeth, and he and Javier had driven to the checkpoint in question, skulking around until they’d found a security camera pointed vaguely in the direction of the street below. It’d been a simple matter of a warrant to rouse the hapless store-owner from his bed, and he’d surrendered the footage willingly.

Now, it’s just after three am, and Javier and Martinez have been pouring through grainy video feed for hours. Based on Arturo’s story, Javier suspects there’s about a five hour window in which you could have been taken. He calculates anywhere between half an hour to an hour, given the traffic conditions, for the vehicle to have arrived at the checkpoint.

If it had even gone that direction to begin with.

Martinez has other guys attempting to locate feeds nearby the other checkpoints around the city. Javier knows it’s a long shot, a very long shot, but this is all he’s got to work with right now, so he holds on to that tiny flame of flickering hope in his heart and focuses his attention on the screen in front of him.

It’s all he can do.

He’s nearly ready to beat his head against the table when Martinez puts a hand on his shoulder. _“Wait.”_

Javier’s heart leaps, and he narrows his eyes, squinting to make out what Martinez is pointing to. It’s difficult with his head throbbing like it is.

The screen is frozen on a red SUV, and there’s Martinez with his head ducked in the window.

Javier feels his breath catch. _“Can you get those tags?”_ Dammit, he wishes he had he glasses on him.

 _“Think so.”_ Martinez responds. He’s already reaching for a notepad.

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 1**

You’re not sure how long it’s been when the door of your room squeaks open. Gentle light spills into the darkness, and a man, the same masked man from before, slips between the crack. He’s holding a plate in one hand, two tiny bottles of water in the other.

He nods to you and crouches to lay down his load in the center of the floor. He doesn’t speak.

Heart pounding erratically, you stand, and the man flinches, reaching behind him for what you assume is a gun tucked into his belt.

You stare at each other like that for a full three seconds.

Now or never. You clear your throat. “Why are you holding us?”

The man blinks at you. Either he doesn’t speak English or he’s not honoring you with a response, probably both, because he turns away sharply and exits the room. Again, you hear the snick of the lock, and again, a stone sinks in your gut at the sound.

Nearby, Ana stirs.

Sighing heavily, you shuffle to the tiny bathroom, wincing as you put weight on your left side, fumbling in the dark until your fingers catch the light switch. You’d quickly discovered that the only light source in your prison cell is the single dingy bulb that hangs above the stained sink, and you’d decided to mostly leave it off for fear of it burning out. It’s not much to see by, but you blink against it anyway, hobbling back to the center of the room to investigate your meal.

The water bottles are deliciously cold, condensation gathered against their sides. A chipped plate houses a lopsided loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a can of something that reminds you a little of spam. Your stomach roils in rebellion. You don’t think you could eat if you tried, but the water looks good, and you sip at yours greedily.

You pick up the plate and the extra bottle, gritting your teeth a little at how bending distributes your weight across your hip. Carefully, you cross the room again and kneel down next to Ana, who - by some miracle - is still asleep.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” you whisper softly, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We got a delivery.”

“Ears?” You feel the exact moment that Ana remembers your situation, because she stiffens beside you. The motion sends regret flashing through your chest.

“Oh,” she sighs, and you settle carefully beside her, placing the plate in her lap. Ana explores its contents with her fingers, grabbing for her bottle of water with the same enthusiasm that you’d reached for yours, then tearing off a piece of bread and tasting it carefully.

She nods, seeming satisfied by its quality, and offers the plate to you.

You shake your head.

“Ears.” Ana’s voice is that same low tone of warning she’d used at her house. “You need to eat.”

You shut your eyes. “I can’t,” you bite out, and that’s true. Your nausea hasn’t abated at all since you’d been chunked into this fucking room, and even the thought of food makes you want to hurl.

Ana sighs. “You have to,” she says, and your heart lurches. “We don’t know when they’re going to feed us again, and if you’re -”

“Maybe some bread,” you cut her off quickly. You don’t want to talk about ‘if.’ Not in that context.

Dutifully, Ana passes you a hunk that’s much bigger than you know you can manage, and dutifully, you nibble at it, more to satisfy her than your biological needs.

Silence stretches between you.

“Ana?” you ask when she’s been still for a while. Questions are spinning wildly in your mind, and you haven’t had an opportunity to voice them until now.

Ana is quiet, but you know instinctively that she’s listening.

“What did those men want with Arturo?” Your voice is steady, soft. You and Ana have danced around each other for your entire friendship. She understands far more than she says about your job, about what exactly a friendless gringa is doing in Bogotá, anyway, but she’s been kind enough to never bring it up, always accepting your vague explanations at face value. At the same time, you’ve allowed her to keep quiet about her shady brother. You’ve never pushed Ana, even when you’d been uncomfortable, even when she’d had plenty of opportunities to come clean, or at least drop you a hint.

But now is the time for answers.

Ana leans back against the wall. “I really don’t know, Ears.”

Bullshit. Ana might not _know,_ but she suspects, and you’re in far too deep to keep secrets from each other. “Is Arturo working for Los Pepes?” you ask point blank.

Ana is silent for a moment. You allow her the time, modulating your breathing, careful to keep very, very still. You can’t help feeling like you’ve crossed an invisible boundary in your friendship.

It’s a huge question.

“He doesn’t tell me anything,” Ana starts in a very small voice. You hold your tongue, knowing that she’ll continue to explain if you let her. And after a moment, she does. “But I think so.” Her voice is hardly a whisper.

You shut your eyes. Of course, you’d known it, but the confirmation still sends a chill down your spine. “Do you think these are Escobar’s men?”

Ana pulls her knees to her chest. “I’m not sure,” she confesses. “Probably. When they found me, they were careful not to say much, but there was some conflict over what to do with me.” She huffs. “‘The bitch,’ they called me.”

Anger boils in you. “So you don’t think they planned for a kidnapping, then?”

“No.” Ana’s voice is tremulous, and you shift your aching body so that you’re sitting side by side. She sinks into you, and you lean into her, grateful for the contact. “They said I might be ‘useful.’” She spits. “Whatever that means.”

Something coils in your gut, and you deliberately don’t answer, resting your head on Ana’s shoulder in silent support instead.

If your kidnappers never intended to be kidnappers, your situation is all the more precarious.

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 1, 7:54 am**

_“Unit 4 in position.”_ The radio crackles and clicks off, and Javier schools his breathing for the thousandth time this morning.

He’s found you. Deep in his heart, Javier knows he’s found you. Martinez had run the tags on the red SUV and instantly discovered that it’d been reported stolen two weeks ago. Marco Manuela, the owner of a small freighting company, had filed a report of the theft of his vehicle by his only son. On instinct, Javier had dug a little deeper on Manuela’s business, and uncovered that Manuela owns several empty warehouses at the outskirts of Bogotá.

It was a no-brainer, sending an unmarked car to scout those locations. Within an hour, Martinez had received word of activity at one of the warehouses. A red SUV, tags matching the one in question, was even parked out front.

Javier’d found himself choking back tears of relief at the news. Finally, finally, he’s going to get you back.

It’s not a moment too soon.

Javier punches the talk button on the radio with a little too much force. _“Quiet and careful. There are hostages inside.”_

His vehicle rolls to a stop a block from the targeted location, and Javier exits the passenger side quickly, shooting a significant look to Martinez. The risk is far from over. Who knows how your kidnappers will respond if they rush in guns blazing. Javier can’t help thinking of Diana Turbay, who’d been killed by CNP in a botched rescue attempt.

Javier will die himself before he allows that to happen to you.

Martinez nods back, and Javier bites back a sigh, intensely gratified to know that Martinez understands the danger. He fingers with the slide of his Colt, anticipation thrumming in his chest, threatening to make him twitchy and anxious.

Javier knows he probably shouldn’t be here, but he cannot bear the thought of one more second away from you. He can keep it together long enough to see you safely in his arms.

The warehouse is dead silent as they approach. No SUV waits outside. The unlocked door opens easily at the twitch of a finger, and Javier’s pulse rushes in his ears.

No, no, no, no.

He’s been on enough raids to recognize an abandoned hideout when he sees one.

The men spread through the building, guns raised to their chests, and Javier rests his head against a cold brick wall, hissing, sucking his lips against his teeth.

They’d been so close. Javier can feel you here, can damn near taste your essence on the air, some sixth sense borne of endless nights spent cradling you in his arms, murmuring into your hair, worshipping you body and soul, whispering into his ear that he’d just missed you.

Fuck. Oh, fuck. Javier wraps himself in that feeling, ignores the devastation that is threatening to swamp him and pulls hard on that tenuous, instinctual thread that connects you.

You’re alive. Javier knows it, feels it deep in his bones. He overlooks the doubt that his logical mind raises, brushes aside nagging thoughts of willful denial, of fantastical thinking, of false hope.

Instinct is all he has to cling to.

 _“Sir.”_ Some nameless, faceless officer grasps for his attention, and Javier pulls himself together, blinks his red-rimmed eyes and sucks it the fuck up.

_“What?”_

The kid doesn’t react to Javier’s impatient tone. _“The building is empty, but there’s evidence of recent activity.”_ He presses a crumpled piece of paper into Javier’s hand. _“We found this upstairs. They left in a hurry.”_

Heart in his throat, Javier unravels the slip of paper. It’s a receipt from Mr. Ribs.

Javier’s breath catches. He recognizes it from last week. You’d challenged him to a game of darts, and he’d let you get a little too drunk, distracted by your antics and the warmth of your body pressed to his chest as he’d attempted to teach you to throw.

Javier’s eyes burn. He was right. You’d been here. You’d been here. You’d been here.

Shaking away the memory, Javier turns the receipt over in his hands, and there, smeared in fat red print that he can hardly read - lipstick, he wonders? - Javier just barely recognizes your handwriting.

_Radio_

_Feo_

_Other girls_

_The port_

Javier sucks a sharp breath. “ _Where did you find this?”_

 _“Stuffed behind a bathroom mirror.”_ The officer twitches, seems as if he’s trying hard not to squirm. _“There was nothing else, sir._ ”

Javier’s breath quickens. He looks closely at the note, marveling again at your ingenuity. You perfect, brilliant, amazing woman, you. Clearly, you’d realized that your captors had intended to move you, and you’d used what resources you’d have to leave Javier yet another clue.

The world doesn’t deserve you.

Javier’s jaw tightens. _“Tear this place apart,”_ he growls, and the officer nods, ducking away as if burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, check out my tumblr @disgruntledspacedad for the ‘darts with Javi’ headcanon.
> 
> Regarding the translation questions I raised last time: I’ve received an overwhelmingly supportive response and lots of kind insight from many of you, and I am more grateful than I have words to express in any language. This is what I’ve arrived at: in scenes featuring Javier, I will continue to use the italicized English quotes to indicate Spanish dialogue. Don Berna will speak Spanish as he does in canon (English-speaking Berna just did not sit right with me), but I will still interject Spanish words for emotional impact. In my mind, this really isn’t all that much different from italicizing an English word in an English sentence, and it’s a way to get the style I’m going for while remaining true to the character. 
> 
> I will continue to have Ears’ scenes a mix of genuine Spanish and summarizations of what she understands. Thankfully, I’ve had many of you offer assistance with this, and again, I’m beyond grateful for the help. You guys are gems.
> 
> I’ve made a huge announcement regarding Ears on my tumblr (@disgruntledspacedad). I won’t be rehashing in its entirety here, but as Better Love has grown, her character has, too. That being said, I might drop an official name for her sometime within If I Fall. If you're uncomfortable with this, I completely understand, and if you need to duck out, no hard feelings whatsoever. I don't like the idea of alienating anybody who has been self inserting into the fic, but I've made it pretty clear from the beginning that Ears walks the line between OFC and reader insert. She's lived in my head for a long time now, and I cannot wait to introduce her for real.
> 
> Okay, I think that’s all for now. Love you guys loads, even though I torture you mercilessly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Unknown, Day 1**

Back in the van, again.

This time, at least, your hands are free, although you’re still smothered in that nasty ass blanket. Heart sinking, you settle in for another long ride, wondering where the fuck your captors are taking you now, your hopes of escape or rescue dwindling with each bumpy, stifled mile.

‘The port,’ they’d said. They’re taking you to ‘the port.’

A muffled sound had roused you from a light doze, and you’d jolted awake, hobbling around your little prison cell until you’d discovered the source of the noise.

A vent in the bathroom ceiling.

Apparently, your captors were having a discussion right above you, or the airflow was just right to carry their conversation. You didn’t care - you’d quickly roused Ana and dragged her into the bathroom with you. “Help me translate, please.”

The voices had been soft and indistinct, but together, you and Ana had managed to cobble together a few key phrases, each of them sending a flash of dread lancing down your spine.

The _sicarios_ were frantic. They kept mentioning the radio, and eventually, you’d deducted that they’d somehow been listening in on a CNP frequency.

Goddammit, Javi’d been on their tail, so fucking close you could taste him, but your captors had realized it first.

There’s been some conflict over what to do with you. One of them wanted to dump you, another mentioned that you’d seen too much, still another that they could stick you with the ‘other girls.’ ‘Gringa, gringa, gringa,’ they kept saying, over and over.

And then, the revelation that made your heart stop.

_“Feo se enojará si regresamos con las manos vacías.”_

Ana had translated succinctly. “Somebody named Feo wants us.”

_“Multa. Los llevaremos ellas al puerto.”_

_“El puerto?”_ you’d asked.

“The port.” Ana’s expression had tightened, and your stomach had sank.

You’d hardly had time to dig in your bag for the receipt and the lipstick before they’d come for you, shaving it down with your fingers so you could sort of write. Sorry, Connie. If Javi is on your tail, it’s critical that he knows that the urgency your situation has accelerated exponentially.

‘The port, the port, the port.’ The word rattles in your brain as you struggle for breath, your muscles cramping painfully from your position on the floor.

Fucking christ, if your captors manage to smuggle you from the country, it’s unlikely that you’ll ever see Javi again.

And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 1**

Stechner is skulking around headquarters when Javier returns.

Usually, his presence is enough to set Javier’s teeth on edge. Last night, Javier’s heart would have leapt to see him.

Now, all he feels is exhaustion as Stechner claps a heavy hand on his shoulder and guides Javier into his office.

Stechner shuts the door softly behind him and indicates the pair of leather chairs in front of his desk a sweep of his hand.

Javier does not sit.

Stechner sighs heavily. “I heard.” He reaches into a desk drawer, pulls out a familiar cassette tape.

Something lurches in Javier’s chest, and he shuts his eyes briefly. He doesn’t want to think about what’s on that tape.

“No luck?” Stechner’s voice is low, concerned.

“They moved her.” Acting on instinct, Javier reaches into his pocket for your note, stroking a thumb at its edges before offering it to Stechner. As reluctant as he is to hand over any piece of you, Javier knows that if anybody can help you now, it’s Bill Stechner.

Stechner frowns down at the receipt. His brows climb subtly, and for one heart-stoping second, something glitters sharply in his eyes.

But the moment is gone as soon as Javier notices it.

Carefully, Stechner folds the paper and places it the open drawer. It shuts with a soft click. “The port,” he muses, and Javier’s heart sinks.

That had been his primary concern, too. “Martinez is reaching out to Buenaventura and Cartagena. If we move quickly -”

Stechner raises a hand, cutting Javier off. His expression is all steely determination, and it’s that, more than his dismissive motion, that makes Javier fall silent. “I have contacts in both cities,” he starts, and for a moment, Javier thinks he might cry with relief. There’s still hope, then. “Let CNP do their thing,” Bill continues, leaning heavily on his fists over the desk. “And I’ll do mine.” His eyes flash dangerously.

“Thank you,” Javier breathes. He straightens, schools his expression. “I’ll catch a flight to Cartagena, start working with -”

“Javier.” Again, Stechner cuts him off, his expression assessing, concerned.

This time, Javier feels annoyance simmering in him.

“Go home,” Bill speaks before Javier can get a word in edgewise.

“Absolutely not. Not while -”

“No, Javier, I mean it.” Bill’s voice is subtly wrapped steel, his delivery gentle, his tone nonnegotiable. “You’re dead on your feet. You won’t do her any good like this.”

Pain flashes through Javier’s middle at the mention of you. “I won’t do her any good at home, either,” he protests, fighting to keep his voice steady.

The thought of abandoning you now is abhorrent. Javier won’t do it.

“Fine.” Stechner shrugs like Javier is a lost cause, and something quickens in Javier, some instinctual awareness that Stechner will not lose a battle so easily. That thought is derailed, though, because Stechner reaches for the cassette tape on his desk and holds it out to Javier. “Take this with you,” he says, still in that careful voice that makes Javier’s skin crawl.

Javier shakes his head vehemently. “You’ll need it.” He doesn’t want that tape. Not now, when he’s powerless to comfort you, desperate to soothe your fears and, and -

Again, Javier clenches his eyes shut.

Don’t go there. Not now. Not here.

Stechner exhales heavily, circles the desk and rests his hand on Javier’s bare arm. “It’s okay,” he reassures, slipping the tape into Javier’s breast pocket. “I’ve made a copy.”

Javier doesn’t protest. The office walls are closing in around him, and it’s all he can do to breathe.

“I’m sorry.” Stechner’s breath huffs hotly at his ear, his palm patting thump thump thump on Javier’s sweat-soaked back.

Javier nods tightly, whirling on his heel. He needs to get out of this office, now.

“Oh, and Javier?”

Goddammit. Goddammit. Goddammit.

Javier tightens his jaw, looks Stechner straight in the eye.

Stechner’s expression is all heartfelt sympathy. “Messina wants to see you in her office.” He purses his lips in a show of derision. “When you have the time.”

* * *

**Unknown, Day 1**

Again, the vehicle rolls to a stop, and this time, you’re dragged out by your hair. Wincing, you lurch upright, throwing your hands in an attempt to find some balance, and a fist whacks you hard in the temple.

_“Ojos hacia abajo.”_

Dutifully, you duck your head, peeking past the edges of the blindfold to stare at your feet. You’re walking on a rough dirt path. The air is stifling. Insects sing. Sweat gathers in sticky beads at your nape and back and brow.

Strange. Nothing about your surroundings suggests that you’re anywhere near a port.

Something ominous coils in you. Had you misheard? Did you lead Javi wrong?

But no answers are forthcoming, and all you can do is continue forward for what seems like hours. The path is narrow but well beaten, foliage grasping greedily at your hips and hands as you shuffle along in single file. The heat only thickens as you press on, mosquitos nipping at your neck and shoulders, and it’s not long before you’re sweating for real, your clothes clinging damp and nasty to your dirty skin. You get the vague impression that you’re moving downhill, but you have no way to prove that to yourself.

Your pulse hammers loudly in your ears, and you ache for something to drink. Since yesterday, you’ve only had that tiny bottle of water, and your head pounds relentlessly with each weary step, dizziness threatening to overtake you as you stagger blindly through the woods.

Beneath you, your boots squelch. You pause for a brief second, glancing down.

Mud.

And now you can smell it, the festering fishy stink of rotting moss. A scent as ingrained in you as life itself, pulling you straight back to a thousand precious memories of running barefoot on the banks of the bayou back home.

You stop and breathe deeply, rolling your shoulders and stretching your spine. This environment is familiar, somehow comforting even in its wildness, and your body responds by relaxing subtly. The air is slightly cooler here, but just as heavy. Mosquitoes still hover obnoxiously at your ears. A soft splash in the distance, a frog, instinct reminds you. Nearby, you hear the soft babble of lazy water, nearly drowned out by the murmur of your captives’ voices.

Dread and anticipation mingle in you. They’ve taken you to a river, you’re sure of it.

The blindfold is yanked from your head, and you blink against the light. You catch flashes of green and brown, of dirty, sweaty men, of two small gray fishing boats moored at the edge of a gently sloped bank.

Your heart pounds. You were right.

_“Entra.”_

Somebody shoves you hard, and you damn near fall into the boat, banging your shins a little, desperately clinging to its edges as it careens beneath your weight. There’s an impatient grunt behind you, so you right yourself, keeping to the center as you stumble past the simple raised seats toward its stern. You settle cross legged at the boat’s belly, resting against the back bench that houses the motor.

You glance around, careful not to turn your head. Water stretches as far as you can see from your peripheral vision, three times, maybe even four times as wide as the Red back home. The river runs slowly, almost sedately, but you know better than to underestimate it at just a glance. Its muddy, murky color and the stinking yellow foam that gathers at the edges of your boat suggest that hidden currents lurk beneath its sedentary surface.

You shut your eyes in frustration. No chance of swimming to the opposite shore, then, even if your captors weren’t armed.

Apparently your position is satisfactory, because three men clamber into the boat behind you, one shoving you aside as he pushes past you to man the troller motor at your back. You barely have time to brace yourself before one of them replaces your blindfold, tugging unnecessarily at your braid as he fumbles with the knot.

You grit your teeth against the assault, casting your mind back to maps of Colombia. Aside from the major cities, you’d hardly made a study of its geography. You estimate that you’d been in the car for several hours, enough time to set your muscles aching again, but hardly long enough to cross the border into another country. You know you’re on a river in the jungle, but your mind blanks as to which one. If you’d ever learned the waterways of Colombia, you’ve forgotten them now.

Not that it really matters.

Behind you, the tiny motor roars to life, and somebody shoves you off the bank, the boat lurching precariously as he climbs in with you.

Your heart sinks like a stone. On one hand, you’re intensely grateful that, for now, at least, it seems that you’re staying in Colombia.

On the other, you wonder if Javi will think to check the river cities. If your destination is even a city to begin with. Given your current surroundings, you kind of doubt that.

The boat picks up speed, and instinctively, you dip your fingers over the edge, taking small delight in the gentle droplets that kick up in your wake. It’s dangerous, you know, but nobody reprimands you, and you lose yourself in the familiarity of the water splashing at your palms. You and Zeke had spent many hours on the bayous back home, him fishing, you reveling in the joy of being outside with a good book. He’d always teased you for sticking your hands and feet where the gators - or worse, the moccasins - could get to them. “Careful, Hanny-Bear, or you’ll draw back a nub!”

You hadn’t cared then, and you don’t care now. There’s something comforting in the cool spray at your fingertips, and you rest your weight against your captor’s knees, pretending that he’s Zeke, that it’s 1975 again, that your worst fear is whether Danny will be home for the weekend. Dusty, nearly forgotten memories swirl vividly at the forefront of your mind, and you lay your aching head on the fiberglass hull of the boat, drowning in the past, allowing the fish-tinged breeze to numb away your worries, just for now.

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 1**

Javier sits heavily on the sofa, presses his head into his hands.

‘I don’t want to see you for forty-eight hours.’ Messina’s words play over and over in his head. ‘Seriously, Peña. Go home. Get some sleep. Don’t make me suspend you.’

Sleep. Javier snorts. How can he sleep when he doesn’t know when he’ll see you again - ‘ _if’_ he’ll see you again, that taunting little voice whispers darkly in the back of his mind. You could be fighting for your life, for all Javier knows.

The idea of sleep is laughable.

He wrings his hands in his lap. Your presence lingers heavy in the air, the entire apartment suffused with you, tainted by you. Javier is damn near drowning in your memory - your tantalizing indignation as he’d pinched your ass while you’d made coffee in the morning, fucking you hard on this very sofa, your body soft and warm and laughing beneath his, the mysterious mess you’d left strewn across the bathroom floor sometime yesterday. It all claws viciously at the numbness that has encased him since the failed raid at the warehouse, and Javier leans back, pressing his palms to his aching head, struggling to contain the gaping pit of sorrow and self-loathing that threatens to swallow him alive when he thinks of you.

Your tape rests heavily against his chest as he moves, and Javier winces at the reminder. You’d risked your life to leave him that recording, and here Javier is, desperate to avoid any thought of you out of his own trivial fear.

Fucking coward.

You’d been truly afraid. Terrified, actually. Javier could sense it in your voice, but you’d swallowed it back and soldiered on, focused solely on giving yourself the best chance of survival.

And somehow, in the middle of the chaos, you’d managed to think of Javier, too.

Javier doesn’t know if he’d rather kiss you or shake you for it. You are so much stronger than him. You always have been. And on the tail of that thought comes another. You deserve so much more than Javier can give. You always have.

Javier owes you more than sitting sniveling on his sofa.

Shakily, he rises, rummaging through the bedroom until he finds your boombox. A belated birthday gift that he’d surprised you with, only weeks after you’d come to live with him.

Javier winces at the memory of how your face had lit up, the way you’d leapt into his arms, how he’d spun you in dizzy circles until you’d both crashed breathless onto the bed.

He cuts off his thoughts sharply. They aren’t doing him any favors, aren’t helping him bring you home.

Javier ejects the tape inside, another flash of longing stabbing through his heart at your scrawled label: _kickass beats vol 2._

Oh, fuck. Emotion wells in him. Javier’d caught you dancing to this mixtape just last week. He’d teased you mercilessly, and you’d let him, clapping back with a grin and a wink, pulling him down on top of you and tempting him to ‘teach you to dance for real.’

Javier’s heart _aches_. His eyes _burn_.

Woodenly, he loads the cartridge into the deck and hits play. Your voice crackles in the speakers, grainy and distant, and Javier’s heart stutters in his chest.

“I love you.” you whisper, and Javier pauses the tape, rewinds your voice over and over and over again, allowing your words to hit him like a tangible blow, shattering him a little more each time he listens.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

Javier memorizes your tone, each syllable and inflection of your delivery, searing the phrase into his memory in a way that he knows is permanent.

 _“Mi vida, mi alma,”_ Javier replies brokenly, knowing that it’s too little, too late. _“Te amo. Te amo tanto. Lo siento. Lo siento mucho. Te amo, te amo, te amo.”_

Eventually, Javier runs out of words, and he starts the tape over, replaying again your horror, your apologies, your declarations.

“I’ve always loved you.”

 _“Lo sé, mi reina. Sé.”_ Javier’s rasping voice breaks. He hides his face in his hands, wipes his nose on his shirt sleeve.

“And I always will.”

Again, Javier punches pause, curling his fingers into fists and pressing them to his eyes. Something throbs ferociously in him, a full body jolt that originates in his chest and lances through his entire being.

You’re not just telling Javier you love him. No, that’s not it at all.

 _You’re telling him goodbye_.

A soft, broken sound keens at the back of Javier’s throat, and he jumps to his feet, grinding his teeth, breathing heavily, anxious energy boiling deep in his bones.

He needs, oh god, _he_ _needs_. Javier needs you like he needs air, needs fiercely to find you, needs just one more moment to wrap you in his arms and inhale the scent of your skin and look you in the eye, quietly, seriously, like you deserve, like he should have long ago. Javier needs to tell you, once and for all, what you mean to him.

What you are to him.

Javier paces, paces, paces the apartment, frantic and desperate, then whirls, facing the boombox as if it were you. _“Eres mi todo.”_ Javier’s voice shakes, and he kneels down to catch its speakers between his palms, resting his forehead against the cool plastic as if he could force his intent through the machinery, somehow amplify his words out into the universe through that nebulous, fantastical thread that connects you.

But the stereo isn’t you. It cannot acknowledge, cannot answer, and Javier’s words die in his throat.

 _“Lamento no haberlo dicho antes,”_ he whispers tearfully, falling into a heap on the sofa. _“Lo siento. Lo siento. Lo siento.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spanish translations:
> 
> Feo’s gonna be pissed if we come back empty handed.
> 
> Fine. We’ll take them to the port.
> 
> Eyes down. 
> 
> Get in. 
> 
> My life, my soul. I love you. I love you so much. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you, I love you, I love you.
> 
> I know, my queen. I know.
> 
> You’re my everything. 
> 
> I wish I’d told you sooner. 
> 
> I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
> 
> Find a quick discussion on why I have Javier speak Spanish when he’s feeling emotional on my tumblr @disgruntledspacedad.


	6. Chapter 6

**Bogotá, Day 1, 4:27 pm**

_“Feo?”_ Arturo sucks a sharp breath. 

Javier leans forward on his elbows. _“What can you tell me?”_

Arturo leaps to his feet, paces the tiny living space. _“Not much,”_ he confesses darkly. _“I got some guns from him once.”_ He pauses, thinks. _“Twice, actually.”_

Javier zeroes in on this. Of course, you’d been right. He hadn’t doubted you, but still, the confirmation sends mingled satisfaction and longing thrumming deep in Javier’s core. He wishes he could tell you how smart you are. _“So he’s a weapons dealer, then.”_

Arturo nods. _“Something like that.”_ He pulls at his hair in frustration. _“Shit.”_

Javier’s breath catches. _“What?”_

Arturo shakes his head. _“Feo is a dangerous man.”_ He looks into the distance, obviously reliving some unsettling memory.

Javier’s mind reels, and he stands, suddenly fearful. _“Dangerous in relation to Pablo Escobar?”_ he prompts, impatient.

Arturo scoffs. “ _Dangerous in a different way than Escobar._ ”

Javier grits his teeth. _“Enlighten me, then.”_

 _“I don’t know much.”_ Again, Arturo is pacing. Javier follows him with his eyes. _“He’s not a sicario. Your girl was wrong. Feo works with Escobar, provides him weapons and sometimes carries out hits, but he’s his own man.”_ He scoffs _. “It’s impossible to know who is in who’s pocket, really._ ”

Javier deliberately stops his thoughts from derailing, sharpens his focus and takes note of what Arturo is saying. 

If Feo isn’t a _sicario_ , then all of Javier’s investigations were bound to have led to dead ends. Worse, he has no idea what sort of threat you might be facing. 

Javier takes a deep, bracing breath. _“Where can we find him?”_

 _“We can’t.”_ Arturo’s eyes are wild, panicked. He rolls his fingers in his hands, twisting them into his palms over and over. 

Javier crosses the room, clamps a hand on Arturo’s shoulder and spins him so that their gazes meet. _“Don’t you bullshit me,”_ he hisses, leaning into Arturo’s space until they are chest to chest, eye to eye. _“If you don’t fucking tell me what you know -”_

Arturo rips himself from Javier’s grip, facing the wall, breathing heavily. Javier allows him a moment, finds that he needs one, too, to gather his reeling emotions, to stop himself from committing murder, or worse.

The seconds stretch long. 

Finally, Arturo breaks. _“He always found me,”_ he admits in a hoarse whisper. His eyes are red rimmed and wet when he looks at Javier again. _“I never was able to track him down. I promise you, Javier, I know nothing._ ”

Javier exhales heavily through his nose. _“You met him for weapons drops,”_ he protests.

 _“No.”_ Arturo shakes his head vehemently. _“Feo is careful. I never met with him, never spoke to him. It was always through a mediator. I was given a time and a location. Nobody was there. Just the goods. That’s all.”_

 _“Fuck.”_ Javier is hardly aware of saying the word aloud. 

_“Javier.”_ It’s Arturo’s turn to face him, his expression imploring, intense. _“They have my baby sister.”_ His voice cracks, his composure faltering, and for one heart stopping moment, Javier catches a glimpse of the real Arturo, a broken, desperate man whose only motivation is to protect the shambles of his family. _“She’s all I’ve got left,”_ Arturo whispers. His fingers scrabble at Javier’s bicep, clinging tightly, shaking for emphasis _. “Do you really think I’d withhold information from you now?_ ”

Javier shuts his eyes, feeling far more exposed than he really should. 

Tears gather at the corners of Arturo’s eyes. _“I have nothing if I don’t have her,”_ he breathes. _“I would set the world on fire, Javier, just to bring her home.”_ He sniffs, glances down. _“I just don’t know how.”_

Javier takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

He understands that implicitly.

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 1, 7:16 pm**

Javier can’t bring himself to clean the mess you’ve made. 

It’s not just the fact that your final moments in the apartment could contain vital clues to your whereabouts, or at least to your state of mind when you’d left. 

No, it’s deeper than that. 

Javier is reluctant to disturb the things that you’d last touched. 

It’s a silly, superstitious thought, but Javier feels that cleaning up is somehow erasing you, and he can’t, oh, god, he can’t fucking do that. Not now. Not yet.

He ambles to your shared bedroom closet and flips the light on. It flickers twice, buzzes softly above his head. 

Your clothes are scattered throughout the tiny space, mingled hopelessly with his. Javier’s heart flinches. He’s always been careful with his laundry. ‘Appearance is everything,’ Mamá had drilled into him from a very early age, so to this day, Javier dutifully presses his shirts and hangs them neatly, even if it takes a little too much time to be strictly practical.

Not so, you. Your clothes are scattered chaotically, shoved in wherever you can make space. There’s no rhyme or reason to what drapes from the hangers, nothing organized by season or color. Javier smiles wistfully as he notices your favorite denim jacket thrown carelessly over the inner handle of the closet door, lopsided and inside out. 

Fierce longing flares in his chest. How many times has he goaded you about your complete disregard for your clothes? And how many times had you clapped back that Javier is too vain for his own good? 

Oh, fuck, he longs to hear your voice now, sharp and teasing, that ever-present smile dancing at your lips and cheeks.

Javier gathers your favorite sweatshirt from where you’d discarded it in a heap on the floor. It’s a printed with the face of some rapper you really like - Javier has never bothered to learn their names - and you tend to wear it and nothing else to bed, when you wear anything at all.

Javier presses his face into the worn cotton, inhaling deeply. Grief floods him, burning at his nose and eyes. The sweatshirt smells like you, spring breeze laundry detergent with a hint of coconut shampoo and citrus body wash, all suffused with that soft, warm scent that Javier can only associate with your skin. 

Javier imagines that he can still feel the heat of your body as he cradles your sweatshirt to his chest. _“Te necesito, mi corazón.”_ His voice wavers, cracks. _“Vuelve conmigo. Por favor, por favor. Te necesito, te necesito más de lo que puedo decir.”_

A sharp knock at the door pulls Javier abruptly from his thoughts, and his heart lurches in his chest, unsure whether to leap at the thought of news, or sink at the threat of _news_.

It’s Steve. He looks hesitant, wrings his hands awkwardly at his waist. “Can I come in?”

Javier doesn’t answer, just throws the door wide.

Steve shuffles into the kitchen, looking around with a little frown at the mess, then pinning that same probing expression on Javier. “I heard about Ears,” he says in a voice that can only be described as gentle, and Javier balks at the softness of his tone, wishes fiercely that Steve would just say what he’s here to say and then get the fuck out.

“Yeah,” Javier murmurs instead, looking at his feet like a goddamn child. 

“Javi,” Steve navigates around to sit on the sofa, and Javier collapses at its opposite arm, suddenly fed up with this song and dance. 

He’s a mess. There’s no reason for Steve Murphy not to see it. 

Steve clears his throat. “Christ, Javi, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t bring her home, Steve.” Javier sighs. Despite his best efforts, there’s nothing biting in his tone, only pure exhaustion. He leans forward on his knees. “Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing new.” Steve’s voice is brittle with frustration. “You know how those CIA fuckers are. ‘Classified, this. Redacted, that.’” He huffs. “Won’t say a goddamned thing.”

Dread lurches deep in Javier’s chest. “Fuck.” He shoots a significant glance at Steve. “It’s Feo. Feo has her.”

That catches Steve’s attention. He straightens, meeting Javier’s eyes for the first time this evening. “How do you know?” he asks warily.

Javier leans back against the sofa. “I’ve got a source,” he mutters. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want answers, Murphy. Please.”

“Okay.” Steve’s response is quick, instantly accepting, and Javier wonders briefly if he’s just confirmed one of Steve’s long held suspicions, or if Steve is just giving him a pass because of the situation. 

Javier decides it really doesn’t matter. “I’ve got to go back,” he confesses, his throat catching at the words.

Steve shoots him a dark look. “Javi, Messina’s just worried about you,” he says seriously. “We all are.” Javier doesn’t even have time to scoff, because Steve barrels right past him, wearing that honest, genuine expression that makes something squirm deep in Javier’s gut. “You look terrible, man. When was the last time you slept?”

Frustration swamps Javier, threatening to rise to the surface as hot tears, or as fists. He chokes it all back, glares intensely at Steve instead. “How the fuck can I sleep,” he hisses through bared teeth, “when I don’t even know if she’s -”

Javier cuts himself off quickly, before his voice can break. 

You’ve got to be alive. You’ve just got to be.

Steve blusters a heavy sigh, looks at Javier like he might be tempted to lay a sympathetic hand on his back, but thankfully, the gesture never comes. “Listen, Javi,” he starts carefully, as if this is the last conversation in the world that he wants to be having. “If you’re not taking care of yourself,” Steve pauses to clear his throat, then picks up speed, “then how the hell are you gonna be able to take care of Ears? When it really matters?”

Javier shuts his eyes tightly and falls back against the sofa, feeling suddenly as if he might shatter beneath the impossible weight that rests on his chest. 

Steve huffs. Javier doesn’t look at him. “Look, I know you can’t sleep,” he says softly, and Javier scoffs at the statement. Sleep is for the dead. “Lord knows I wouldn’t be able to, either. But I think Connie’s got some benadryl hidden in the bathroom cabinet.”

Javier snorts. 

“No, seriously, that shit knocks me on my ass.” Steve’s voice is sturdier now, more confident, as if he’s latched on to an objective, some tangible way to help. “Why don’t you let me bring you a couple, see if you can get some shut-eye for a bit?” He pauses, then continues lowly. “If you show up looking like you’ve got some real rest, Messina might overlook that 48 hour hold.”

“Steve.” Javier’s voice cracks.

He can’t. He just can’t, why doesn’t Steve get that?

Steve shrugs nonchalantly. “We could put our heads together on this Feo thing. Solve it once and for all.”

Javier’s heart lurches, that nagging, obnoxious hope rising unbidden in him. “Yeah,” he croaks, tempted to bite his tongue as the words escape his lips, but there’s no fight left in him, not tonight. “Whatever.”

“Great.” Steve looks relieved as he springs for the door. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Sure, Steve.” Again, Javier shuts his tired eyes. “Door’s open.”

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 2, 9:54 am**

Javier squints against the pale morning light that glares through the bedroom window.

Fuck, he feels like he’s been run over by a freight train.

Groggily, he reaches for your side of the bed, fingers catching cool sheets instead of the soft heat of your skin. 

Well, that’s typical. You’re always up early, probably in the kitchen brewing -

Awareness floods him like a bucket of ice water, and Javier sits up in the bed, gasping audibly against the sharp stab of pain that lances through his chest. 

Oh, god. Oh, god. 

You’re gone. 

Something is balled beneath his pillow, and absently, Javier reaches for it. His heart breaks anew as he pulls your sweater to his chest. 

He’d fallen asleep with it crushed beneath his cheek, his face burrowed in its soft cotton, pretending in those hazy, distant moments between wakefulness and dreams that everything was okay again, that it was you, warm and precious and alive, that he’d cradled safely in his arms.

Javier presses his palms to his burning eyes, panting to catch a full breath against the grief and panic that threaten to overtake him. 

How the fuck could he have forgotten?

Javier dresses quickly, noticing absently that the red flannel he’s tempted to reach for is missing. Longing stabs at his heart. He can’t remember wearing it recently, wonders if you’d stolen it again. There’s nothing you love more than curling up in Javier’s clothes, and Javier can’t fault you for that. It’s one of his favorite sights, too.

Oh, fuck, he aches for you.

Javier brushes his teeth viciously, drowning his fear and self-recrimination in the familiarity of his daily routine, taking solace in the fierce determination that boils hot beneath his skin.

He refuses to waste this day.

Eight minutes later, Javier is gripping his keys so tightly that their teeth dig jagged little patterns into his palm, thundering down the stairs and launching himself behind the wheel of the Bronco. 

Today is the day.

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 2, 10:28 am**

Messina catches sight of him in the goddamn parking lot. 

Shit. Javier bites back a frustrated groan. He’d hoped to avoid her for at least a couple of hours.

She places her hands on her hips and shoots him a pointed glare. “Peña,” she starts.

“I’m just here to do my job, Messina.” Javier keeps his voice low and serious. He’s being as earnest as he knows how to be. 

Messina folds her arms across her chest and looks him over critically, and Javier puts on his sharpest, ‘I’ve had my coffee this morning’ expression. 

Please, please.

“Fine,” Messina huffs, and then with one more lingering look, she’s gone.

Javier breathes an intense sigh of relief. 

Again, Stechner is nowhere to be found, and no amount of pestering can get Javier any answers on his whereabouts. 

“Sorry, Peña,” Cavanaugh raises his hands in a deferential little gesture that is far too akin to a shrug for Javier’s taste. “But I really don’t know.”

Javier bites back his mounting annoyance, reminds himself not to alienate your boss, reminds himself that it’s a good thing that Bill is gone. It means he’s busy finding you.

He buries his emotions, shifts his weight. “Then update me on the Aarons investigation.”

Cavanaugh blinks at him.

Javier feels his nostrils flare. He bites the feeling back, grinds out, “Please.”

Cavanaugh grimaces. _I’m making him uncomfortable,_ Javier realizes sharply. But that thought is quickly lost as Cavanaugh clears his throat. “I can’t,” he announces carefully.

“Can’t?”

“That information is classified.”

A stone sinks in Javier’s gut. Indignation quickly gives way to fury, and it’s all he can do to contain his expression. His fingers curl to fists at his sides, but he just manages not to use them on Cavanaugh’s idiot face. “Thanks for you help,” Javier spits, slamming the door behind him as forcefully as he can get away with without shattering the glass.

He storms into Martinez’s office without knocking. _“A word.”_

Martinez glances up from a report. “Peña,” he says, as if he’s surprised to see Javier here.

Javier flops into the leather chair, the flames of his anger suddenly extinguished into helpless exhaustion _. “Please tell me you have news,”_ he rasps, shutting his eyes briefly against the subtle crack in his voice.

Martinez sighs heavily, and Javier shifts his elbows to his knees, bracing himself for the worst. 

Martinez scrubs his forehead with his fingers, looking for all the world like a man carrying a heavy burden. Javier scoffs at the thought. It’s not _his_ better half that’s been abducted by some mysterious, untraceable murder for hire.

Javier’s chest tightens. Every second that you’re gone is like a goddamn eternity.

“Javier,” Martinez sighs, leaning over his desk with an oh so sad expression that makes Javier’s blood boil. _“Search Bloc is not a missing person’s unit. I’ve passed on the information to the departments in Cartagena and -”_

Javier is on his feet before he’s aware of standing. _“You’re saying you’re done, is that it?”_

Martinez stands as well, palms pressed heavily on his desk. _“Yes. Search Bloc is done.”_ His voice is like steel. _“I have the utmost sympathy for your situation. Truly, Javier, I cannot imagine.”_ He winces, seems to deflate before Javier’s eyes. _“But my department has a single priority, one we have failed at every turn - to bring Escobar to justice.”_ Martinez’s eyes are dark, equal parts authority and apology as he holds Javier’s gaze gently, seriously. _“Tell me how I can justify spending all of my resources in search of one woman, when I cannot even find the man who holds all of Colombia in his grasp.”_

Javier turns away, fighting back his roaring emotions, biting his cheek until he tastes blood. Truth is, Martinez isn’t wrong. A distant, rational part of Javier knows it. Still, he can’t help feeling as if the rug has been yanked from beneath his feet, like a cold, paralyzing flood is rising higher and higher, freezing his lungs, lapping at his mouth and nose until Javier can hardly draw a full breath for risk of drowning.

 _“What about Delgado?”_ he breathes, whirling on his heel to face Martinez again.

Martinez holds his gaze for a long, long moment. Javier meets his eyes, allowing his stark desperation to leak openly into his expression.

He has everything to lose.

Martinez sighs heavily. _“I can keep tabs on their progress,”_ he admits, and Javier’s breath leaves his body with a intense whoosh of relief. Martinez’s expression sharpens. _“But Javier, I can’t guarantee anything,”_ he warns. _“Women go missing from Bogotá daily-”_

 _“I know.”_ Javier cuts him off, not wanting to discuss the odds that are stacked against you. He already knows they are astronomical. _“I know. Thank you.”_

 _“Of course,”_ Martinez replies, but Javier is already gone.

* * *

**Bogotá, Day 2, 11:32 am**

Javi slips into the office silently, but his presence alone hits Steve like a clap of thunder, and he looks up from the filing cabinet that he’s been shuffling through, startled by the intensity of the shift in the atmosphere.

Javi looks awful. He leans over his desk with his fists braced against the woodgrain, lost in thought, tension written so deep into each plane of his body that Steve’s back aches just from watching him.

Steve’s heart lurches. “Hey,” he starts carefully. He’s honest to god shocked to see Javi here, figured Messina would have sent his ass home again. 

Javi doesn’t react, could be a statue but for the steady rise and fall and rise of his ribs with each heavy breath.

“So.” Steve fumbles awkwardly for words, wants to reach out and connect with Javi, who is obviously spiraling, has no idea how to do that. He clears his throat. “Anything new?”

Javi shuts his eyes so hard that it crumples his entire face, and again, sympathy lances through Steve’s chest. It fucking hurts him, seeing his best friend scrambling so openly to hold it together. 

And then there’s you. Steve balks at even the thought of you, what you must be experiencing right now, alone in the hands of Escobar’s _sicarios_.

Steve shuts his eyes, too. He can’t imagine anything more horrific, doesn’t even want to try.

“Don’t.” Javi’s voice is like ground glass, shattered and bloody as it rips from his throat. “Please, Steve. Don’t.” He swallows hard, and Steve looks away, ashamed. He doesn’t have a clue what to say, how to proceed. 

But then Javi seems to gather himself, straightening his back and schooling his expression, and the coward in Steve is glad for the semblance of normalcy. Javi inhales sharply, and Steve breathes with him, grateful, chastened. “Give me everything we’ve got on Feo,” Javi orders as he sits heavily at his desk, and Steve springs to his feet, relieved as fuck to have some direction. 

“Already ahead of you, man,” he says as he gathers the folders and crosses the room to place them in Javi’s hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish translations:
> 
> I need you, my heart.
> 
> Come back to me. Please, please. I need you, I need you more than I can say.
> 
> So, a few of you have mentioned inconsistencies in ROE. I know. Rules is a hot mess. I need to go back and edit several things (it was originally intended to be a one-shot, lol) but I’ve been putting it off a just tiny bit longer because I want to be damn sure that I’ve got Ears’ characterization down. I’m almost ready to go back in and do a major overhaul, just hang with me, please.
> 
> On that note, disregard Save a Horse, too. Consider it a BL AU for now

**Author's Note:**

> a quick note on warnings for If I Fall:
> 
> If I Fall deals with some pretty heavy shit. I’m of the opinion that if you’re this deep in the Better Love ‘verse, you’re a consenting adult who has a good idea of what to expect from Narcos fanfic as I write it. As such, the only warnings I will be posting on the individual chapters are those dealing with non-con/sex trafficking. I will update the warnings here as new chapters are released. If you have specific triggers, feel free to slide into my DM’s @disgruntledspacedad on tumblr. This is the kind of fic where it’s impossible to warn for everything.
> 
> unplanned pregnancy 
> 
> canon-typical violence
> 
> kidnapping
> 
> language
> 
> threat of non-con/sexual assault (nothing will happen on screen, and I will warn for this on the individual chapter headers)
> 
> weapons/discussion of guns
> 
> blood/gore
> 
> discussion of sex trafficking 
> 
> high stakes and lots of angst
> 
> Love you guys loads. Please stay safe, and feel free to message me with any specific concerns.


End file.
